In the beginning, Ryan wasn’t looking for anyone. He wasn’t searching to be rescued - he didn’t need a friend. In fact, it may even be possible that he didn’t have a register for loneliness, like when he was born his brain just... didn’t pick up on that cue. And that isn’t a sad fact, necessarily; he’d grown proud of his independence. Chalk it up to a self-sustained childhood, if you want to. Or dumb it down to years spent alone in a practical paradise, where he managed to evade the only visits he ever happened to get (from a housekeeper, or seven). If he’d made friends before this (he did, let’s not talk about it), his mind occasionally wandered, remembered their faces in subsidiary details of course only an author or a keen-eyed artist would pick up on. Laugh lines, a lack thereof, course fingertips from various instruments, tired eyes, what exactly needed to be said to make their brow furrow with emotion. The feelings associated with these memories were not what he would call loneliness or yearning, so no, he decided; he didn’t need anyone. If his past didn’t matter to him, then the future may as well be empty, too.

And then, like a flood to a circuitboard, Brendon came to scramble his calculated way of living up. 

The first time Ryan caught him wandering about in the middle of the night and only had brief conversation, he eventually had to return to his own quarters, and there was this not-quite-right sense about doing that. Sometimes he prolonged conversation whenever he actually had Brendon doing his job giving him information - once he’d gotten a full picture, he pretended to need more pieces for an already complete puzzle, because he knew when he walked away he’d have that feeling hanging over his head. Other times he wouldn’t even have to have just seen Brendon to feel it. He’d be in the middle of something, even. Fingers adrift over a half-faded keyboard, a worn-out backspace, and he’d think about the other presence that he was neglecting to be around. This was it: loneliness. Ryan thought it wasn’t an option for him. 

It’s a unique kind of loneliness, though. He wonders if it’s worse. It’s not just out of nowhere, wishing anybody could be here. It’s knowing that you could have just one person around, and they’re not. In any case, as is so predictable of Ryan, he doesn’t spend any time interpreting it. The pangs are only now and again, and besides, Brendon is dependable. He always comes back. Their relationship is a bond, now, very different from how snappy they were at first (even if Ryan still has his moments - Brendon seems to be forgiving).

(And understanding.)

[i]You’re just reliving things through showing other people your pain and not actually- tackling it.[/i]

(And he genuinely - cannot stress this enough - gives an entire fuck.)

[i]Just write what makes you happy.[/i]

Ryan wasn’t as graceful, and has never been, so of course he did not respond at that time - physically or verbal. His response was action-oriented. His next writing seemed to communicate, [i]okay, Brendon,[/i] almost, with heedless gaiety, no more inhibitions, [i]this is what makes me happy.[/i] It was easy to be jovial when you had a subject. There was an inexhaustible amount of features in whatever he wrote that, again, were things that only authors or keen-eyed artists would pick up on. He was not as telltale, and he was always trying to fit a given context, but something specific breathed life into his writing. [i]This is you.[/i]

He observed every reaction to what he gave Brendon closely, and to each he received something positive, but he always wondered. Do you realize? I couldn’t do this without you.

Sometimes there were more direct lines of communication. Brendon simply taking a brief trip back to NYC felt like when he was a kid, waiting for school to begin so that he could get out of his house, for a hellish summer to end. And what a long, hardly productive ‘summer’ that was; Brendon was sort of his muse. He’d never been reliant on just one ever before, but when Brendon left his home, it became pretty clear that he’d found a major one. (And this is where he started to tend more to his guitar. It requires much less focus than writing.) When Brendon came back, Ryan scooped him up, no invitation, nothing - something so rare for him. Better than that, he wasn’t denied. Ryan counted the seconds, took his first full breath in a while, cradled the curve at the back of his neck, and then it was over, and Brendon was telling Ryan he missed him. Ryan exhaled, finding relief and calm, and decided he’d follow his usual pattern of showing Brendon as best as he could how he felt. I missed you, too.

But it can’t repeat forever. If he keeps making Brendon hop over obstacles, doing guesswork, he won’t know how needed he is. As ‘ungraceful’ as Ryan feels he is.

Brendon stepped backwards and Ryan moved boldly in congruence with him, watching his face fall, wishing he could repeat everything he’d ever hidden in analogy and metaphor out loud, only bared free this time for Brendon to hear in plain terms. Here is how I feel - I’m sorry I’ve been afraid. [i]Why?[/i] Ryan tilted his head up at the suddenness, uncertain how to receive him. [i]Are you sure? Or do you just need- someone. Because I only need you.[/i] Ryan searched his face, shaking his head. [b]”Brendon–“[/b] he started, stopping when he registered Brendon’s body language, his defenses going up. Ryan’s lack of initiative began this - it couldn’t continue it.

[i]I wish I didn’t. I wish I just- lived not knowing rather than finding out you don’t feel the same. I can’t stay, it’s too- it’s too much.[/i] Ryan listened with hands almost outstretched, wanting to keep him in place, not knowing if the gesture was welcome. The urge to outright contradict him arose, but the scene played out in his head, a writer’s theatre, and it seemed argumentative. He wanted to treat him as gently as Brendon had treated him all along. Ryan watched him turn away, his shoulders sloping down, face settling into calmness when he sat down. [i]I’m leaving. As soon as- as soon as I’m ready.[/i] Ryan swallowed, eyebrows knotted together in concern for a moment before he stepped through the doorway fully, coming to a safe distance at the end of the bed.

[b]”Once, you told me to write about what makes me happy. Ever since, I’ve only been writing about you.”[/b] You cannot just show people these things - least of all Brendon. Ryan has seen his language of love, and he has to speak the same language to be understood. He’s more afraid of losing Brendon than he is of being vulnerable. [b]”I miss you when you’re a floor away,”[/b] he said, and he started to smile, realizing how silly it sounded. [b]”Sometimes I’ll change a story just because I think you’d like a different ending.”[/b] His grin became more reserved as he reflected, expression more thoughtful, at peace. [b]”I counted down the days until you came back from the city. I’d forgotten what it’s like without you around. Not great, by the way.”[/b] Ryan smiled lopsidedly, only a little cynical. 

His smiled quitened into a more neutral expression, deciding he was determined. He dropped down onto the end of the bed until he could sit criss-crossed, facing Brendon. [b]”I’m in love with you.”[/b] A tack-on of ‘and I [i]suck[/i] at talking about it’ lingered on his tongue, but maybe it was a little too soon to make jokes at his own expense.